The Lonely World
by ibohemianam
Summary: A series of snapshots depicting Callen's road to recovery after the events of "Legend (Part II)." Pre-series, includes the whole team.
1. Chapter 1

It started with a few twitches.

Sam glanced over at the couch and his slumbering partner. Well, _slumbering_ was putting it a little too mildly. G had his left arm flung awkwardly over the back of the couch, the other twitching spasmodically at his side. Sam shook his head. Whoever figured out how G Callen worked could probably figure out the mysteries of the rest of the freaking universe. He turned back his laptop. _He_ was the more productive one in their partnership. For sure.

G grunted, turning over so that his face was pressed to the back of the couch, right arm cradled up against his chest. Even from where he sat, Sam could hear G's breathing quicken and grow labored.

Looking up again with no small amount of concern, Sam tapped his fingers against his laptop. Waking G was never a good idea. Not unless you were prepared to be one the receiving end of the meanest left hook in town.

Callen turned over again, legs hanging halfway off the couch. Sam could make out the faint sheen of sweat on his partner's forehead.

"G," he said, making up his mind.

Callen twitched again, right fist clenching momentarily before falling open.

Sighing, Sam stood and lumbered over to the couch, cautiously placing a hand on Callen's shoulder.

"G, wake up, man."

The response was unexpected in that there was none. Callen winced and turned away from Sam's voice, brow furrowed.

Sam could feel himself going into full "mother hen" mode. G never slept this heavily.

Reaching out again, he shook Callen's shoulder gently, and when there was no response, he shook a little harder, raising his voice.

"Come on, G. Wake up!"

Callen's eyes shot open, and Sam brought an arm up just in time to block the infamous left hook before quickly stepping back to give his partner some room to breathe.

The momentum of his half-conscious attack carried Callen clear off the couch, landing him in an atypically ungraceful heap on the floor, blinking rapidly and gasping for air.

"G," Sam said cautiously, "You with me?"

"Yeah," Callen wheezed, breath catching in his throat. He coughed painfully, twinges arcing through his chest as a not-so-welcome reminder of the vague shadows of his dreams. Shoving himself into a seated position, he leaned heavily back against the couch, face aflame as he felt Sam watch him struggle to get himself back under control.

Sam sat next to him silently, giving him space.

"You want to tell me what that was all about?" the big man said at last.

Callen unconsciously pressed a hand against his chest.

"I think you already know," he replied.

Sam glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"You talk to Nate about this?"

"'Course," Callen said breezily, leveraging his arms up on the couch and standing.

Sam remained seated, glaring at him.

"I'm _fine_, Sam." Callen held out a hand.

Sam shook his head but took it, pulling himself up. He didn't miss the faint wince as Callen turned away and rolled his shoulder.

"You just fell off a _couch_, G," Sam said pointedly, "We've been partners for three years, and I've never seen you fall off of _anything_."

"You were the one doing the compressions on my _shoulder_. How are you even certified?" G sniped, rolling his eyes as he stalked out of the bullpen.

"It's not my fault your skinny ass couldn't take it," Sam shot back, forcing aside memories of chest compressions and squealing tires.

Callen threw a cocky grin over his shoulder.

"That's what _you_ think."

Sam knew when to push and when to let it slide. He also recognized a retreat when he saw one. Sitting down again in front of his laptop, he glanced at the time. Bordering on eleven-thirty. He groaned. Michelle was going to kill him. Glancing up at his partner's retreating back, Sam knew better than to ask if G wanted to crash on his couch. Sighing again, he snapped his laptop shut and grabbed his bag, casting one last searching look down the darkened corridors of OSP before heading home.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam stood stiffly in the harsh fluorescent lights of the barren hallway, arms folded, hands balled into fists. He clenched his jaw and stood stock still, unmoving, solid, glaring at the closed doors before him. Every instinct screamed that he should be on the other side of that door. He _needed_ to be on the other side. But he wasn't. So he waited.

Sam marked the passage of time with every deep breath. Poise. Precision. That's what he needed.

The doors clicked open, and Sam barreled through almost before one of the nurses jerked his head in affirmation. Pounding down the long row of glass sliding doors, every step jerky, forcefully controlled, Sam hurtled past the intern exiting with the crash cart into the last room in the hall, yanking aside the privacy curtain, wild eyes demanding an explanation from the man in the white coat.

"He's fine," the man in the white coat said in response to his unspoken question, "He briefly regained consciousness a few minutes ago and was in considerable distress, so we removed the tracheal tube."

Sam's eyes darted to the pale figure in the bed before flicking quickly back to the doctor, who shook his head.

"He didn't say anything. Remember that we only removed the chest tube two days ago—Agent Callen is still making remarkable progress considering the extent of his injuries."

Sam pressed his lips together but jerked a nod.

"If you have any further questions, let me know," the doctor said, following his team out of the room and quietly sliding the door shut behind him.

Sam let the curtain fall behind him as he drew up a chair, sinking down and letting the tension drain from his body. His phone beeped, and he reached into his pocket, glanced at the caller I.D., and tapped the speakerphone button, setting the phone down on his knee.

"Doctor said he woke up a few minutes before I got here," he said wearily, "They took the trach out, but he hasn't really come back a hundred percent yet."

"I'm sure Mr. Callen will come to of his own accord, Mr. Hanna."

"Yeah. Well, why don't you tell his lazy ass to hurry it up? It's been a week and a half already."

"Patience, Mr. Hanna. He's probably just catching up on all the sleep he hasn't gotten for the past three decades of his life."

Sam snorted softly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I'll let you know if he wakes up, Hetty."

"_When_, Mr. Hanna. Not if."

Sam opened his mouth but saw that the line had already been disconnected. Shaking his head, he tucked his phone away again and, leaning forward, looked up at his partner.

"Hear that, G?" he said softly, "Even Hetty's worried about you. When was the last time you heard her tell a joke that bad?"

No wry chuckle greeted his comment. No blue eyes crinkled in amusement.

Sam settled back again in his chair. It would be a long wait.


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm not sitting in that thing."

Sam sighed, thinking that maybe he shouldn't be thinking about strangling the partner whose struggle to remain on this side of grave had recently consumed most of his waking hours. He folded his arms across his chest.

"I'm not going to catch your skinny ass if you fall over again."

"You won't have to."

"Uh huh."

Callen grinned at him, more life in his pale face than there had been for the past month and a half.

"What's so bad about sitting in a wheelchair anyways?" Sam demanded, more than slightly unsettled by the idea of his partner keeling over in the parking lot, "It's a free ride. I'll push you. Do wheelies, even."

"Do I _look_ like your grandmother?"

"I _know_ you didn't just insult my grandma. She's ninety-nine and can probably _carry_ you out of here under one arm."

Callen rolled his eyes, hands held palms out in a gesture of surrender.

"_Fine_. I'll sit in the freaking chair. But only to your car. I'm perfectly capable of walking up your driveway myself."

Sam shook his head in mock disbelief but wheeled the chair over to the bed. Callen slowly shoved the sheets off his legs, wincing at the pull in his chest.

"Easy, G," Sam said automatically.

Callen ignored him, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hanging for a moment in space.

Looking up at Sam, he frowned.

"I forgot pants."

"Of course you did," Sam replied, reaching behind him for his bag, "So I brought the sweats _and _the jacket you left in _my_ washing machine the last time you stayed over," he handed the soft pile of fleece to his partner, "You're welcome."

Callen smirked.

"Guess you really are my mother."

Sam stepped back again and glanced at the door as Callen reached down and struggled to fit his feet into the legs of the pants, grunting as he pulled them up to his waist. Sam didn't have to look to know that the elastic band pooled loosely around Callen's hips. The man had lost a lot more than just blood, and of that, he'd lost plenty.

Sam pretended to check his phone, knowing that he had no new messages. He knew that his partner would ask for help if he needed it and certainly wouldn't accept it if offered.

Callen twisted his left arm behind him, fumbling at the ties of his hospital gown. He managed to undo the one at his waist, but when he reached up to undo the knot at the base of his neck, he flinched and gasped audibly.

Sam was by his side in an instant, gently pulling the knot loose and sliding the gown off to the side.

"Thanks," Callen gasped, pressing a hand to his chest.

"You alright, G?" Sam said quietly.

Callen nodded mutely, pale cheeks tinged red. He shrugged on the jacket and sat for a moment, too spent to even consider zipping it up.

Sam tried not to look at the bandages. Or the ribs he could count clear as day.

Slowly, Callen eased himself up, wavering for a moment and leaning on the bed for support. Sam gripped the handles of the wheelchair to steady it despite the fact that he'd locked the brakes. Callen swiveled and gingerly settled down into the seat, exhaling and sagging to the side almost immediately.

Sam decided that maybe wheelies were out of the question right now.

He unlocked the brakes, mentally running through discharge procedure, all of which they'd more or less disregarded. Turning the chair around, he set off at a leisurely pace down the hall, bag slung over a shoulder.

Once they reached the parking lot, Sam fished his keys one-handed out of his pocket. The Challenger chirped in the stall right by the elevator.

"What'd you do, go steal your grandmother's handicap placard?" Callen snorted faintly.

"What did I say about making fun of my grandmother, G?" Sam retorted.

Sam wheeled the chair to the passenger door and locked the brakes before pulling the door open. Callen slowly levered himself up, a faint sheen of perspiration glistening on his forehead.

"Take your time," Sam said, "For once, we got all day."

Callen grunted and folded himself into the passenger seat with a faint huff. Sam shut the door and collapsed the wheelchair, stowing it in the trunk on his way to the driver's seat.

As they rolled out of the parking lot, Sam snuck a glance at his partner, who'd apparently already fallen asleep, head angled away towards the window, jacket hanging loose around him. Sam rolled up the windows and drove.

The sun hung low in the sky by the time they'd fought their way through Friday afternoon traffic on the 405. Sam pulled into the garage and cut the engine, turning to his partner.

"G," he said softly, "G, we're here."

Callen twitched and blinked, sluggishly taking in his surroundings.

"You… parked in the garage," he slurred, "You never park in the garage."

"Well, I've got next week off," Sam replied, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening his door, "Plus I don't want to be the one dragging you all the way up my driveway."

Callen smiled faintly, unbuckling his seatbelt and fumbling with the car door. He stood slowly, leaning heavily against the Challenger for support as Sam shut the door and locked the car. Sam hovered beside him, offering an unobtrusive arm for support as they slowly shuffled into the house. Callen instinctively turned to the den, and Sam followed him in, nearly bumping into him when Callen stopped short in the doorway.

"Where's… Where's the couch?" he asked, bewildered, taking in the large white bed that had replaced the familiar brown piece of furniture.

"This is a sofa bed, G," Sam explained patiently, nudging his partner into the room, "Did you really think I'd let you cram yourself into that itty bitty thing?"

"I liked the couch," G protested half-heartedly as Sam manhandled him over to the sofa bed.

Sam ignored him.

"Sit down before you fall down," he ordered.

Callen sat, still somewhat dazed as Sam strode out of the room. A bed? A _real_ bed?

Sam returned with a water bottle, rummaged around in his bag, then popped open a pill bottle.

"Daily dose of Schedule II drugs," he said, "Bottoms up."

Callen eyed the pills with distaste but tossed them back with a long pull on the water bottle.

Sam tried not to be worried.

"Sleep," he said instead, "You look like crap."

"You gonna tuck me in?"

"Funny, G. Very funny."

* * *

_Thanks for the reviews!_


	4. Chapter 4

Sam's phone beeped, and he reached down mechanically to pull it out. He recognized the area code. Who would be calling from D.C.? He considered ignoring the call, even thought about taking his phone and hurling out the window, but he took a deep breath, brushed aside those thoughts, and hit the answer button.

"Hanna," he said.

"Gibbs. I just got the call about Callen."

Sam shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah," he said a little more roughly than he intended, "He's still in surgery. We won't know much until they're done in there."

"Anything we can do?"

"Whoever did this has been onto G for a while," Sam muttered, "They knew where he was staying, when he'd be there, everything." Frustration rose in him again. Just a few moments sooner, and…

"I'll follow up with Mace. Keep me in the loop."

"Yeah."

Sam hung up and shoved the phone back into his pocket, pacing restlessly across the waiting room.

The door burst open, and Sam jerked his head up.

"How bad?" Kensi whispered as the door swung shut behind her.

Sam shook his head.

"Bad," he said quietly.

Kensi put a hand on Sam's elbow as he turned away and said, "He'll pull through," even as her eyes brimmed with tears.


	5. Chapter 5

Callen gasped for air, every breath pulled into his lungs a monumental effort. He struggled to remember where he was. What happened? A blank expanse of blue. Blue. Blue. Something. His eyes slipped shut. That numbness. Must have been one hell of a bottle of scotch.

Someone shouted in his ear. Someone familiar. Why couldn't he just—

"—don't do this to me, G!"

Callen forced his eyes open. The blue was gone, and a familiar face was in its place.

"S… Sam," he choked, the pain hitting like that two-ton truck in Serbia. Serbia. What was Sam doing in Serbia? Gibbs—

"—stay with me, G. Come on, open your eyes."

They _were_ open. There was just nothing there. Why couldn't Sam see?

Something burbled in the back of his throat, and he gagged. Blood. This wasn't good.

What happened?

He coughed, and the pain was enough to send him reeling again. Callen shuddered and gasped, hands twitching, scrabbling uselessly for purchase, for _anything_ to hold on to so he could ride this out. The coughing turned into wheezing, and in a sudden moment of clarity, G Callen realized that he was going to die.

Sam felt Callen go limp in his arms, and he pushed aside the pain, the guilt, the _terror_ and laid his partner flat on the warm pavement. A steady hand searched for a pulse. None. He began compressions, counting out loud. A hundred beats per minute. Sets of thirty. Two breaths in between. He tried not to feel the bones moving beneath his hands.

He was on his fifth set by the time he heard the sirens. Sam didn't move, counting out loud, and the paramedics knew what he was doing. One had an AED and unceremoniously tore off Callen's shirt, slapping the pads on over the blood. Sam backed off, and the moment the jolt lifted his partner off the pavement, he had his right hand over left, pressing with the heels of his palm, elbows locked. Another charge. Another jolt.

"Come on, G," he muttered, words running together like the blood on his hands, "Come on, come on, come on. Don't do this to me."

One of the paramedics grabbed him by the shoulder, words sounding from far away, and suddenly G was on a gurney, and Sam automatically followed, sprinting ahead to the ambulance so he could tuck himself into a corner and avoid getting in the way.

It was a habit he wished he'd never picked up.


	6. Chapter 6

"Hey."

Several machines beeped. The ventilator hissed.

"I know you can hear me, so I'll just keep talking until I have to go, which… Might actually be pretty soon. Sorry, dude."

Special Agent Mike Renko walked slowly from the door to the foot of the bed, leaning heavily against the handle and staring hard at the white sheets before him. He took a breath.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner," he shook his head, "We still had some loose ends to wrap up, some stuff Mace couldn't get us out of. She's pretty shaken up, you know?" he paused, "We all are."

Renko flung his head back and transferred his gaze to the ceiling, white-knuckled hands gripping the bed.

"There's talk of Vance reassigning her somewhere in Marseille. Can you imagine that? Mace? In France?" he closed his eyes and smiled faintly, "God help the universe."

Renko forcefully pushed himself away from the bed, turning his back on it and pacing back and forth before.

"You've got a pretty intense security detail outside your door, you know, G? Besides us, I mean," he added hurriedly, "It's like you're the president or something. LAPD's taking this pretty seriously too. I'd really like to see anyone get past Sam, though. That'd be pretty funny. He's like your personal bulldozer," he paused for a moment, forcing himself to search the still features of the man under the white sheets, "I'm glad you found him. You and I were gold together, but you and Sam…" he shook his head wryly, "You're like Paul Newman and Robert Redford, man. Hit after hit after hit. You feelin' the raindrops yet?" a smirk, a small crease between the eyebrows, "Seriously, though. I'm glad you've got somebody who cares about you so much. That's rare. Real gold."

Renko stood and just stared for a long moment at the pale face beneath the mask. He reached out a hand, faltered, and dropped it back to his side.

"You gotta pull through, G," he urged, "You gotta pull through. If not for yourself, for Sam. It'll tear him apart, G. You hear that? And Macy. And… me. I _know_ we mean something to you. You can't just leave us here. We gotta catch the guys who did this. Don't make us do it alone, G. _Please_."

Chest heaving, Renko swiped angrily at his eyes, blinking rapidly to clear the tears that threatened to spill. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Bowing his head, he stuffed his hand into his pocket and silenced it.

"I…" his voice broke. Marshaling his strength, he continued, "I have to go, G. I'm going undercover in Canada, and my flight leaves in an hour. _Canada_," he chuckled half-heartedly, "I'm going to freeze. But it's only for a few months, though, so what am I really complaining about, anyways?"

The machines continued to beep. The ventilator hissed.

Turning for the door, Renko cast one last look over his shoulder and said quietly, "You better be here to welcome me back."

* * *

_Hey everyone, I wanted to avoid posting during the holidays since this was a pretty heavy chapter, but I thought I'd throw one up during this awkward gap between Christmas and New Year's anyways. Thanks for sticking with this. _

_The Paul Newman/Robert Redford allusion was inspired by this picture (take out the spaces): instagram . /p/VIBewyy7rZ/_


	7. Chapter 7

Nate Getz, along with the vast majority of modern-day psychologists, believed that Freud was a bit of a loon. It could be said that psychoanalytic theory alone was responsible for most, if not all, of the stereotypes the general public held regarding the field of psychology, given that one of psychoanalytic theory's underlying tenets was the idea of repression, namely, that in the case of a traumatic event, the patient would box up whatever emotions or memories he or she had about this event and lock it away somewhere. This box could only be retrieved through certain psychoanalytic methods, most notably free association.

In other words, lying down on couches and spitting out whatever came to mind in the hopes that some highly trained medical professional would be able to make sense of the relationship between a patient's ambivalence about last night's dinner and the sudden appearance of snow in the fish tank.

Yes. Nate Getz definitely believed Freud was a bit of a loon.

Despite that, however, he wondered what the founding father of psychology would make of the man sprawled inelegantly on a very different kind of couch before him.

As if he'd heard his thoughts, the man on the couch smirked, blue eyes glimmering with a sly sparkle.

Nate sighed.

The smirk grew.

"You know, just staring at me isn't going to get you _officially _cleared for duty," he said, leaning back and folding his arms.

Callen raised an eyebrow.

"And neither will that. Save your charm for Hetty. You're going to need it."

The smirk broke into a grin.

"You know how this works, Callen," Nate continued patiently, "You need to _talk_ to me. Give me something to work with."

Callen reached back and scratched his head.

"What do you want to talk about?" he asked drily.

"Let's start with you. Talk about yourself. How're you doing, Callen?"

"Great."

Nate knew better than to react. He waited. And raised an eyebrow of his own.

Callen dropped his hand, and in an instant, the smirk was gone.

"You know how I work, Nate," he said, "My _modus operandi_ isn't one that most psychologists consider beneficial to the maintenance and growth of my mental well-being."

_I need a raise_, Nate thought.

"Why do you say that?" he questioned instead.

Callen shrugged.

"I have deep-seated issues with abandonment and abuse that I repress in order to function in high-stress situations under multiple identities."

_Maybe an early retirement would be better_.

"So you acknowledge that you have had difficulties in your personal life that may affect your ability to function as an operative?"

Callen shrugged again.

"Sure. But they haven't so far."

"That doesn't mean they won't in the future."

Nate could see the tension building in Callen's shoulders.

"Tell me about the shooting," Nate said finally.

"You've read the reports," Callen countered.

"I want _you_ to tell me about it."

Callen twitched the fingers on his right hand, the first visible sign of unease.

"Sam was dropping me off," he said quietly, staring past Nate into the deserted bullpen where the lights had already been dimmed for the night, "We'd just wrapped up the case with Gibbs and his team. I got out of the car, walked down to the corner," he looked down and shook his head, "Didn't even hear them before it was too late."

Nate let the silence linger for a little, then decided to push a little harder.

"Do you remember anything else?"

Callen pressed his lips together and shook his head again.

"Not much," he replied, "Just bits and pieces."

"How do you feel about it?"

"How do I feel?" Callen snorted, "I got shot. _Five times_. It kind of hurts."

Nate didn't remark on the present tense and reined in the conversation.

"That's not what I'm asking, and you know it."

Nate met Callen's gaze levelly. Callen broke away first, staring again into the darkened bullpen.

"I…" he faltered uncharacteristically, fingers twitching again as he shifted uneasily on the couch, "I felt like someone was watching me."

Nate cocked his head.

"When?"

"About a week before I was shot," Callen replied, "It was weird. I thought maybe it was that—" he stopped abruptly.

Nate waited, but no explanation came. Callen remained frozen, a slight tremor beginning in his right hand.

"Callen?" Nate asked gently, "Callen, you with me?"

Callen flinched violently as Nate reached out and touched his knee, hands clenched into fists. He was halfway to his feet before he realized who he was half a left hook away from sending to oblivion.

Nate cursed himself for his lapse in judgment. Physical contact was never an option with Callen.

"Callen, you alright?" he said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you like that."

"I'm fine," Callen whispered, staggering backwards, putting as much distance between Nate and himself as possible.

Nate waited for his pulse to return to normal before speaking again.

"Want to tell me what that was all about?"

Callen snapped his head up, looking for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights for half a moment before the shields came slamming down again and a casual arm swiped at the cold sweat trickling down his face.

"You were putting me to sleep," he said blandly, "I zoned out for a bit there."

"Yeah," Nate snorted, "Right in the middle of a sentence."

Callen moved back to the couch again, sitting in one fluid motion.

"That's right," he said, "It was my first day back. It was a long one. I've got six months' worth of expense accounts to catch up on."

He smiled. It didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Callen—"

Callen got up again, patted Nate cheerfully on the shoulder, and gathered the hefty pile of folders from the desk, striding off into the darkness of the building.

Nate sat in his chair alone, staring at the empty couch before him. It looked really comfortable. Maybe just a short little—

He shook himself violently. Who was he? G Callen? Nate stood, stretched, and placed the chair back at the main table, stuffing his hands in his pockets, thinking, _Next time… Next time, I'll _**tie**_ him to the couch._

* * *

_Happy New Year, everyone! I'll be posting a little more regularly now that the holidays are through._


	8. Chapter 8

Kensi gently slid the door shut behind her, quietly making her way to the privacy curtain and pulling it open.

"Whoa," she stammered, stepping back, hands out, "Whoa. It's just me, Sam."

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, removing his weapon from its dangerous proximity to Kensi's nose and holstering it, "Just woke up." He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes, stifling a yawn.

"It's okay," Kensi replied, pulse hammering, "How is he?"

"No change," Sam sighed, standing stiffly and offering Kensi the chair.

"Go home and get some sleep, Sam," Kensi said, "You know I'll call if anything changes."

Sam shook his head and stretched.

"I just need some tea or something. Get me going."

"You almost blew my head off," Kensi countered, "I think you've been _going_ a little too long."

"I gotta be here for him, Kensi," Sam muttered, folding his arms and pacing back and forth, "I gotta be here when he comes back."

Kensi watched him pace silently, sympathy in her eyes.

"There wasn't anything you could do, Sam," she said softly, "It was a drive-by. There was nothing _any_ of us could do."

"I _know_ that," Sam growled, clenching his hands into fists, "That's what makes me so mad. How am I supposed to protect him when some guys with guns could mow him down every time he walks down the street? Who _are_ these people? How did they know where G was staying?" he shook his head, "It doesn't make sense, Kensi."

"A lot of things are always out of our control, Sam," came a voice from behind the curtain, "It's just our job to figure out what we _can_ control and focus on them."

Sam's hand shot to his gun again, but Kensi placed a hand on his arm.

Macy stepped through the curtain, eyes skimming over the still figure in the bed.

"Mace…" Kensi said, "I thought you were on duty."

Macy nodded slowly, avoiding eye contact.

"I was. I am. I'm just here to say goodbye."

Sam frowned, "Goodbye?"

Macy sighed, avoiding eye contact as she slowly walked over to the bed, placing a hand on the lifeless arm that lay on the sheets.

"Director Vance has reassigned me to a task force in Marseilles. My flight's in a few hours."

"_What_?" Kensi yelped, "This doesn't have anything to do with…" she trailed off as Macy gently took Callen's hand in hers.

"He can't do this," Sam rumbled, crossing his arms again, "It's messed up."

"It's alright," Macy whispered, holding Callen's hand as her eyes brimmed with tears, "I don't think I could work here anymore anyways."

"Mace…" Kensi said tenderly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"How long will you be gone?" Sam demanded.

"It's permanent," Macy replied, slowly standing and resolutely brushing the tears from her eyes, "My replacement will be here in a few days. That leaves you in charge for now, Sam."

Sam shook his head firmly.

"I'm staying with G," he said, "I've got several months of vacation days, and I'll cash them all in if I have to."

"I can handle things with Eric," Kensi offered, "We're supposed to be getting a new guy in a few weeks anyways, so I'm sure we can manage."

Sam nodded his thanks as Macy felt a surge of pride run through her. This was her team. More than a team. A family.

"I should go, then," she said, subdued, "I still have a few things to pack."

Kensi embraced her warmly, and Sam nearly lifted her off the floor as he whispered a few words in her ear.

Swallowing hard to speak past the lump in her throat, she looked at Sam and said, "When Callen wakes up, tell him…" she paused, gathering herself, "Tell him I'm sorry."

Macy turned and left, the door thudding shut behind her.

Kensi drew in a deep breath, sliding down into the chair as Sam drew himself up, arms folded again.

On the bed, Callen winced and stirred, head flopping weakly to one side.

Sam threw himself to the bed, gripping Callen's arm.

"G?" he asked, hardly daring to hope, "G, you with me?"

Kensi gripped his other hand.

"Callen, squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

It was hardly there, but the pressure on her fingers sent a wide grin across Kensi's face. She smiled at Sam, surprised by the welling tears in her eyes.

"I'll go get the nurse," she said, hurrying out of the room.

Sam bent down, hovering over his partner.

"Open your eyes, G," he commanded, "Open your eyes. Let me know you're in there."

A faint flicker of blue, a quiver of heavy lashes. Callen gasped, wheezing heavily through the oxygen mask, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

"Ride it out, G," Sam said, "Ride it out. I'm here." He placed his hand in Callen's, surprised by the sudden strength of his partner's grip.

Callen groaned weakly, eyes shooting open, brimming with reflexive tears.

"It's alright, G," Sam murmured, "Kensi's getting your nurse. She'll be here any minute."

"S… Sam," Callen gasped, squeezing his eyes shut as clenched his hand around Sam's, "Sam… please."

Sam placed his other hand around his partner's, trying to still the tremors.

"Hang in there, G," he muttered, "I'm not going anywhere."

The privacy curtain flew open, and Kensi appeared with the nurse, who took one look at Callen and moved straight for the morphine drip, hitting a few buttons before shining a penlight into Callen's eyes. She scribbled a few notes in his chart.

Callen fell limp almost immediately, hand sliding loosely out of Sam's grip. A single tear tracked its way down his cheek.

The nurse smiled sympathetically as Kensi brushed it away with a thumb.

"Believe it or not," the nurse said, tucking Callen's chart under an arm, "This is a good sign. When he wakes up again, we can work out the morphine dosage. It's always difficult to gauge pain levels after major surgery when the patient has been unconscious for so long."

Sam shook his head, dazed, "I've never seen him like that before. I've seen him concussed to hell and back, stabbed, beaten, strangled, shot, but I've never seen him show this much pain."

"It'll take a while for him to get back to full awareness," the nurse replied gently, "He's already made great progress. I'll be back in an hour or so to check up on him."

The curtain swished shut again, and Kensi and Sam met each other's gaze across the bed, heaving a collective breath.

"He'll be fine, Sam," Kensi said, "He'll be fine."

* * *

_Thanks for the reviews!_

_On a side note, I was just wondering how many of you would be interested in a story about what Callen and Gibbs did in the oft-referenced but never explained mission in Serbia. I've actually written out the entire thing but have been kind of hesitant to post it. Let me know in the reviews._


	9. Chapter 9

"How far'd you go today?"

Breathing heavily, Callen glanced at his partner, who sat in the deserted dining room, a mountain of salad in front of him.

"Just… a couple of miles," he replied between breaths, unlacing his running shoes and sticking them onto the shoe rack.

"That's good," Sam said, shoving a forkful of green into his mouth.

"Where's… the rest of the family?" Callen asked, padding into the kitchen and pouring himself a glass of water from the sink.

"Girls' night out," Sam muttered dourly, "Got a message on my voicemail five minutes ago."

Callen cocked an eyebrow, leaning against the kitchen counter as he took a sip of water and breathed deeply, ignoring the ache in his chest.

"That explains the salad," he said.

"You gotta shower before you even come _near_ this," Sam said, wrinkling his nose, "You stink."

"Stink is manly. Baby powder isn't," Callen called over his shoulder as his rinsed out his glass and headed for the bathroom.

"Baby powder…?" Sam frowned and stabbed again at his salad.

* * *

Callen reappeared a few minutes later, clad only in sweatpants and a towel around his neck.

"Whoa, there, handsome man," Sam snickered, "Going out to pick up some ladies?"

Callen glared at him, making for the fridge.

"Forgot to do laundry," he mumbled, "I'm out of shirts."

"Maybe if you actually owned more than five shirts, this wouldn't be a problem."

"Says the man who wears henleys to work every day."

"From the guy who hasn't been to work in three months," Sam retorted, "It's a little hard to care about what you wear when you're running around L.A. getting shot at."

Callen stiffened, refrigerator door halfway open.

"Dammit, G, I'm sorry," Sam apologized, rising from the table and turning to face his friend, "I didn't mean it like that."

"I know," Callen murmured, shutting the refrigerator door.

He turned and left the kitchen. Sam tried not to stare at the scars on his back.

* * *

Sam gingerly opened the hatch to his roof, easing it closed behind him as he made his way through the darkness to the solitary figure who sat on the far side, legs hanging over the edge. He plopped a white paper bag down next to Callen and sat down next to him.

"Thought you might be hungry," he said, testing the waters.

Callen glanced into the bag.

"What happened to 'My Body is a Temple?" he asked with the ghost of a smile, reaching in and withdrawing a greasy burger.

"There's only one in there."

Callen raised an eyebrow.

"What if I'm hungry? These Double-Doubles are shrinking by the year."

"There's salad in the fridge."

Callen grimaced and took a small bite, chewing slowly.

Sam gathered himself.

"Look, G, about what I said—"

"We're good," Callen said quietly.

"No, really. That was a stupid thing to say."

Callen shrugged.

"It's true, though," he said lightly, "It's a little hard to care about anything when we're just running around getting shot at all the time."

Sam glanced at him. Callen's eyes were shadowed in the moonlight.

"Some things still matter, G."

Callen nodded slowly, taking another bite and chewing.

"I know."

Some of the tension in Sam's gut disappeared with those two words.

"Come on," he said, getting to his feet, "It's getting late."

Callen didn't move, tilting his head back to look at his towering partner.

"I don't have work tomorrow," he pointed out drily.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, but I do. It's dark and you're sitting on my roof eating a burger _I_ bought you. Is it too much to ask for you to get your skinny, half-naked ass inside before you fall off my roof and break your neck?"

"When have you ever seen me fall off anything?"

"Don't make me carry you."

Callen snatched up the paper bag as he stood, tossing the burger wrapper in.

"I'm going, I'm going," he muttered, bare feet silent on the roof tiles.

Sam sprang forward to steady him as Callen wavered a moment before winking cheekily and hopping quickly over to the hatch with catlike grace.

"Keep it up, G," Sam called after him, "Keep it up and I'll break your neck for you."

* * *

_I thought I'd throw in a lighter chapter to balance out the mood a little._

_Thanks so much for the support - you all really blew me away last chapter!_

_A brief update on the Serbia story: I'm running it through the last few rounds of edits, so it should be ready around the beginning of next week. Keep an eye out for it-I'll be posting it as a crossover. Any title suggestions?_


	10. Chapter 10

Sam snapped awake, eyes meeting the blank ceiling in the dark. Immediately alert, he reached under his bed for his backup piece. Rolling silently out of bed, he was suddenly glad his girls were off at camp. Michelle slept on as he slipped out of the room.

He heard another muffled thump from farther down the hall. His gun at the ready, he made his way slowly past the kitchen and the dining room towards the den. Something crashed from behind the closed door, shattering the oppressive silence, followed by a blood-curdling cry of pure terror.

Sam burst into the den, scanning the room as he called out, "G? You okay?"

He glimpsed a sliver of light from under the bathroom door. Striding past the bed and its rumpled sheets, Sam tucked his gun into the back of his pants, cautiously pushing open the door.

Callen lay crumpled on the bathroom tile, gasping for breath, the shattered remains of a mirror littering the floor around him.

"G!" Sam shouted, crouching among the glass shards and grabbing his partner's shoulders as he curled in on himself, "G, you with me?"

Callen shuddered uncontrollably. Sam gripped him tighter.

"G," Sam commanded, peering into his friend's clouded eyes, "Breathe."

Callen choked as his breath caught in his throat. He doubled over into Sam's arms, coughing and sobbing for air.

"I'm right here, G," Sam said calmly, though his heart hammered away in his chest, "I'm right here."

Callen drew in a deep breath, shaking as he pushed himself away from his partner.

"Everything alright?"

Sam glanced over his shoulder to see Michelle in the doorway, gun held loosely at her side.

"Yeah, we're good," he said lowly.

His wife half-smiled sadly, understanding in her eyes as she turned and disappeared back down the hall.

"Sorry," Callen muttered, eyeing the shattered mirror as he leaned back against the wall, "I didn't… I'm fine. Go back to sleep."

"You think you're gonna get rid of me that easily?"

Callen didn't reply, drawing his knees to his chest. Sam settled down out of his crouch, back against the toilet, facing his partner.

"So you wanna tell me what happened?"

Callen stared at a fractured sliver of glass.

"No," he whispered.

Something deep in Sam twisted with that word. Never. Never in their nearly-three-year partnership had Callen ever shut him out so completely. There were always a few glimmers of truth behind the glittering eyes, something hidden under the casual response.

Maybe it was because he'd never really asked. He'd never really asked about his partner's serial apartment-hopping. Never really asked about the "G." Never really asked about the scars he'd seen in the locker room. Never really asked about Callen's tendency to wake up swinging. In almost three years, he'd never really asked Callen anything.

And now that he had, the answer was no.

Sam floundered in the silence for a moment, completely at a loss.

"Want me to call Nate?" he said tentatively.

Callen jerked his head sharply, almost flinched at these words.

"_No_."

Sam settled back against the toilet bowl, back starting to cramp up. Callen fidgeted with his hands.

"I just…" he faltered, swallowing hard as he closed his eyes and brought his head back up against the wall, "I just need some time, Sam."

The words stung, but Sam nodded slowly, easing himself back to his feet.

"Don't worry about it," he said quietly, "I'll clean it up tomorrow."

The next morning, when Sam cautiously peeked into the den and found forty dollars on the bathroom counter above a recently swept floor and no sign of his partner, he realized he didn't know exactly what it was he'd be cleaning up.

* * *

_The first chapter of _Serbia_ will be up tomorrow, so keep an eye out for it._


	11. Chapter 11

Callen slowly opened his eyes.

_Hospital_, he thought immediately, followed by a sour, _Again._

He glanced around from the drawn privacy curtains to the many IV poles by his bed. He didn't need to see the needles to feel them. A warm fuzziness hummed around his thoughts, and Callen realized that he was on some strong stuff.

_What happened?_

A white van. Ocean Front. The Russian girl.

The memories hit so fast that Callen didn't stop to think, jerking halfway into a seated position before blinding pain tore through his chest, and he fell back with no more than a harsh gasp.

A curse and the skidding of something crashing to the ground echoed down the long corridor that had suddenly opened between reality and his consciousness. Someone grabbed his arm—his left one. The one that hadn't joined the rest of his chest in a massive protest against movement.

_Okay_, Callen thought, _Okay. I'm fine. I've been shot before. Multiple times. I'm fine. I'm fine._

Someone called his name. Someone familiar.

"I'm fine," he tried to choke out, but his swollen tongue wouldn't move, so all he managed was a muffled groan.

The hand around his arm grew tighter, and Callen used it as an anchor to haul himself back to reality.

"Sam," he rasped, locking eyes with his partner, who towered above him, thinly veiled panic in his eyes.

"G," Sam said cautiously, "You really with me this time?"

"Yeah," Callen replied, clenching his jaw and fighting back the pain.

Sam caught this immediately.

"Want me to get the nurse?"

Callen shook his head.

"'M fine," he whispered.

Sam's eyes held an ocean of concern, but the relief surging through him was enough to keep him in place, never letting go of his partner's arm.

"You've been out for almost two weeks," he said quietly, "Hetty thinks you're trying to catch up on sleep. I think you're just lazy."

Callen smiled weakly.

"Was anyone else…" he paused to draw a shallow breath, "was anyone else hurt?"

Sam shook his head.

"They were after you, G. Any idea why?"

"No," Callen muttered, looking away and mumbling to himself, "Two weeks… That's a long time."

"No kidding," Sam retorted, pausing and continuing in a softer tone, "You had us all worried for a while."

"Sorry."

Sam smirked and shook his head.

"You uh…" Callen breathed, right hand twitching spasmodically, "D'you mind… letting go of my arm? I know… we're partners and all, but I think… it's going numb… unless I'm having a heart attack… or something."

Sam snatched his hand away from the bed and Callen wriggled his left hand in relief.

"Thanks."

Sam eyed his partner. Callen rolled his eyes.

"Sam, I'm _fine_," he groaned weakly.

"You had a couple, you know," Sam said lowly.

"A couple what?"

"A couple heart attacks. It was bad, G. Real bad."

Callen looked down at the bandages crisscrossing his chest.

"How many?" he asked.

"Heart attacks?"

"Holes."

Sam flinched.

"Five."

Callen sucked in half a breath.

"That's… A lot."

"You think this is _funny_?"

Callen blinked, surprised by the venom in his partner's tone.

Sam rounded on him, saying heatedly, "I was _there_, G. I was there when those guys shot you. I was there when you stopped breathing. I was there when the paramedics came, five minutes after I started chest compressions. Man, I was there when you _died_," his voice broke, and the former SEAL turned away, blinking furiously, "Don't you_ ever_ joke about this, G," he continued quietly, "You might not believe it, but there are some people out here who were really scared, more scared than they ever were in their lives."

The beeping ECG monitor was the only sound in the ensuing silence.

"Sam…" Callen said hesitantly, "Sam, I'm sorry."

Sam's shoulders slumped, and he turned back to the bed slowly.

"I just need you to know that even though _you_ might not care if you live or die—" he broke off, pausing before adding quietly, "I do."

Callen's eyes stung as he held his friend's gaze.

"Got it," he whispered.

* * *

_I've got a few more chapters to go in this one before I wrap it up - unless any of you have suggestions, that is. _

_I posted _Serbia_ in the NCIS/NCIS: LA crossover section early last week, but nothing much came of it, so I'm re-posting it here in the NCIS: LA section as_ Serbia: Revisited _simply because it's a Callen-driven story that I think a lot of you would enjoy. _

_Thanks for sticking with me, and, as always, your comments and reviews keep me going._


	12. Chapter 12

_Here's a lighter chapter._

* * *

The football arced through the air without the slightest hint of a wobble. The perfect spiral.

Large hands snatched it out of the air with a soft thump.

"Good one," Sam called, eyeing the white stitching between his fingers as he twirled the ball.

"Felt good," Callen replied, fifty meters away.

He glanced over his shoulder to the waves crashing on the shore. An empty beach was hard to come by this time of the year, but he'd never had an issue with getting up early. For him, "getting up" was just pulling on a shirt and going for the five-minute walk down to the beach from his apartment.

"Heads up, G."

Callen glanced up in time to catch the football sailing back towards him. Rolling his shoulder reflexively, he reared back and hurled the ball through the air, wincing as unused muscles protested. His pass was short, and Sam jogged forward a few steps, sweats flapping around his legs as he bent over to catch it just above the sand.

"You hungry?" Sam asked, tossing the ball from hand to hand as he closed the distance to his partner.

Callen huffed an incredulous laugh.

"Sam, this is my PT," Callen sighed, "It's _supposed_ to hurt."

"Hurt? Who said anything about hurt?" Sam said blandly, giving his partner a gentle nudge as he walked past Callen to his car, "I'm hungry. Let's eat."

"Sam—" Callen rolled his eyes as his friend ignored him, climbing into the Challenger and starting the engine. Shaking out the sand between his toes, Callen followed, opening the passenger side door and folding himself into the seat.

They pulled out of the parking lot, and Callen sat back, relaxed.

"Where're we going?" he asked.

Sam eyed his partner.

"Well, you seem to be taking the 'bum' in 'beach bum' pretty literally, and it's not even six in the morning, so I'm guessing there aren't a lot of places open for pale, skinny, barefoot dudes in serious need of a shave. I'm taking you back to my place. We can fry up some bacon or something."

Callen raised an eyebrow.

"Bacon?"

"You could use the fat right now. Don't look at me. I've got my multigrain cereal."

"You really don't have to—"

"What're you gonna do? Jump out of my car 'cause I offer you breakfast?"

Callen smirked, settling back in his seat.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

* * *

Callen shivered slightly as he stood in Sam's kitchen, bacon popping on the stove next to a pan of eggs. His bare feet were cold on the tiled floor, and he suddenly wished he'd decided to bring a jacket.

"Here."

A steaming mug of tea forced its way into his hand.

"Thanks," Callen said gratefully, wrapping his hands around the mug.

Sam raised an eyebrow as he leaned back against the counter, sipping from his own steaming mug.

"You been eating at all?" he asked critically.

"Partner, not mother, Sam."

Sam shook his head, turning the heat off on the stove and scooping out the bacon and eggs.

"Just saying. I could probably throw you farther than that football."

Callen winced in mock apprehension.

"Please don't. I'm pretty sure the ten new unnatural openings in my body wouldn't really appreciate that."

Sam sighed, continuing in the same vein as he took the plates and headed for the dining room, Callen following behind with two forks he'd grabbed from the dishwasher.

"You really gonna count each bullet hole as _two_? That's cheating."

Callen sat with a grunt.

"What're we doing now, comparing war wounds?"

Sam snorted, talking around a mouth of scrambled eggs.

"I'm not even going to compete with you. You're like Frankenstein. All cut up and stitched back together."

"You're jealous," Callen said with a sly smile.

"Jealous?" Sam raised his eyebrows, "Why would I be jealous?"

"I got more bullet holes than you. Manlier."

"Excuse me. Exactly what is it about bullet holes that make you manly? If _you_ like telling the world about how you forgot to duck, then go ahead. But I'm good."

"I'm _embracing_ my condition, Sam. It's what Nate says I should be doing."

"Since when did you ever do what Nate says you should do?"

Callen stabbed viciously at his eggs.

"Since I 'forgot to duck' and got shot five times."

Sam paused. Callen continued jabbing at his eggs. Sam shook out some cereal into a bowl, digging into it with his fork. He crunched noisily away at the granola as Callen destroyed the rest of his eggs.

"I'm married," he said suddenly.

"Congratulations," Callen replied drily, "What unexpected news, since I'm sitting in your house, staring at the vacuum tracks across your living room carpet. _You_ don't vacuum. Too manly for it."

"No," Sam continued, bent on making his point, "I'm _married_. I have a _wife_. Who's _attracted_ to me," he smirked, "How's that for manliness?"

"You, my friend, have been tied to an institution of the times," Callen proclaimed dramatically, waving his fork in the air, "Marriage… It's like slavery."

"Yeah. 'Cause you know so much about it."

"Who says I haven't been married before?"

Sam froze, fork halfway to his mouth. Callen smirked lopsidedly, standing and taking his plate and fork back to the kitchen.

"Thanks for breakfast," he called over his shoulder as he headed for the front door.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, _whoa_," Sam muttered, springing to his feet and lunging for his partner, "You can't just leave me hanging like that. You were _married_? To _who_?" he paused to consider, "Who'd want to marry _you_?"

Callen grinned, stepping out onto the front porch.

"You sound like one of those gossip magazines," he shook his head, "Not very manly."

"You don't have a car. How're you gonna get back to your apartment?"

Callen looked down at his bare feet, clumps of sand still stuck between his toes, then back up at his partner.

"I'll walk," he said from the sidewalk, "I'm manly."

"What's gonna stop me from following you back in my car?"

Callen paused, cocking his head, a crooked smile spreading across his face.

"Your wife," he said, turning and walking off down the street.

Sam frowned.

"My wi—"

"—SAMUEL HANNA, WHY IS THERE _SAND_ IN MY _DINING ROOM_?"

"Oh, _crap_," Sam bolted for the kitchen, Callen's parting words drifting back through the open door.

"It's time to pull out that vacuum, Sam!"


	13. Chapter 13

Eric stood outside the door, fidgeting nervously. His toes were cold, and they wriggled miserably against the straps of his flip-flops. He stuck his hands in his pockets, fiddled with his glasses, licked his lips. A woman in blue scrubs brushed past him, and Eric stumbled quickly out of the way, a fumbling apology on his lips.

He stared at the door. Clear glass. Probably Windex-ed every day. Clean. Shiny. Not much privacy.

Eric avoided looking at the drawn curtain beyond the door. He didn't want to think about who lay behind it.

"What am I doing here?" he muttered to himself, spinning on his heel and turning off down the corridor.

He made it almost to the elevator bay before stopping dead. A sea of medical students in short, white coats parted around him.

"Put on some pants, Eric," he muttered again, turning around and striding back down the hall, "Man up."

He stopped before the familiar door again.

"Hi, Callen," he said to the door, smile plastered across his face. Wincing at the false cheer in his tone, he tried again, "Hi, Callen." He shook his head. "Hey, Callen, how're you doing?" Groaning, he paced back and forth before the door, muttering, "Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. He's in the _hospital_. How do you _think_ he's doing?" Eric stopped, drawing himself up. "I'm just gonna go in. Go in. Say hi. Talk." He put a hand on the door handle, paused, then jerked his hand back. "What am I going to talk about?" he fought back a rising tide of panic, running through a mental list of his conversation-proficient topics. Movies. Probably not. Gaming. _Definitely_ not. Tech. Maybe. He could talk about the latest developments in optic fiber technology. That was interesting, right? Yes. Eric nodded firmly to himself. Yes. It was.

Still, he hesitated, looking through the glass at the vague shape outlined behind the curtain.

Eric bit his lip. And opened the door.

As the door swished shut behind him, Eric stepped hesitantly towards the curtain, pulling it aside.

"Hey… Callen," he said.

The man in the bed grinned tiredly back at him.

"Hey, Eric," Callen breathed, struggling into a seated position, "What's up?"

"Uh…" Eric let the curtain fall shut behind him, "Nothing. Just saying hi."

Callen squinted up at him, "Do you mind sitting down and saying hi?"

"Oh. Yeah," Eric fumbled for a chair, "Yeah. Sure."

He sat quickly, folding his hands in his lap. Callen blinked at him.

"Something wrong?" the lead agent asked drily.

"What? No," Eric answered quickly, "No. Nothing's wrong. Why?"

"You look like Hetty's trying to put you in pants again."

Eric blushed furiously. Callen raised an eyebrow.

"Is she?"

"No," Eric blurted.

Callen raised another eyebrow.

"Fine," Eric sighed, "Yes. Hetty threatened to make me wear pants. Again."

Callen smiled again, eyes crinkling.

"What'd you do this time?"

"Ah…" Eric hesitated.

"It can't possibly be worse than the thing with the liquid nitrogen and—"

"—don't," Eric interrupted hastily, "I thought we agreed that the liquid nitrogen thing was…" he gestured vaguely, "…redacted."

"It's _worse_ than the liquid nitrogen thing?" Callen barreled on, "What'd you do, accidentally bomb the Pentagon?"

"No, I…" Eric shook his head, looking down at his feet, "Hetty…"

Callen waited patiently, smirk pulling at his lips.

"Hetty said I was avoiding the hospital. Avoiding you."

The words tumbled out over each other.

Eric glanced up to catch a flash of emotion flicker across Callen's face.

"Really."

Eric nodded vigorously, eyes fixed on his feet again.

"Well, were you?" Callen asked lightly.

Eric bit his lip.

"I'm not…" he hesitated, "I'm not so good with hospitals."

"You don't have to stay," Callen said quietly, "Hetty shouldn't have forced you to come."

"No, I've wanted to come visit you for a while, but it's just that… It's just that hospitals are where people go when there's something seriously wrong, and sometimes, well, sometimes, they don't ever leave the hospital, and you never see them again, so hospitals, to me, I mean, are just one step away from the morgue."

Eric stared a hole in the floor.

"Well," Callen said slowly, "I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere any time soon, which can be a good or a bad thing depending on how you look at it."

Eric smiled weakly, still staring at the floor.

"But since you're here now, you can make yourself useful."

Eric looked up sharply, confused.

"Could you hand me my bag?" Callen asked, gesturing towards the table by his bed.

Eric reached over and handed it to Callen, who poked around inside before withdrawing a tablet computer. He set the bag aside and reached around to pull his patient tray table closer to him. Callen set the tablet down flat on the table.

"Hetty practically threw this at me the last time she was here," he explained, powering up the device, fingers swiping nimbly across the screen, "She said that if she even caught me _thinking_ about making a run for it, she'd make my sick leave mandatory."

Eric huffed a laugh, unconsciously leaning over to watch what flickered by on the screen.

"You ever play Guitar Hero?" Callen asked suddenly.

"Yeah…" Eric said cautiously, dragging the word out.

"Good," Callen said. He pushed the tablet closer to Eric. "You and me. Let's go."

He set the volume to max and smirked.

Eric's gaze darted from the tablet, which had already started blaring Springsteen's "Jungleland," to Callen, who ignored him and stared intently, fingers raised, at the row of pulsing lights at the bottom of his side of the screen.

Eric scooted his chair closer to the bed and stared at his row of little flashing lights. A quickly-approaching row of dots approached from the top of the screen.

"You ready for this?" Callen growled.

Eric looked up, wariness for a moment forgotten as he met the reassuring gaze of his team leader.

Grinning broadly, Eric pushed up his glasses and said, "Bring it on."

* * *

_This was one of my favorite chapters to write. I've always felt like there was something more to Eric and Callen's relationship based on the way Eric greeted Callen when Callen returned to the OSP in "Identity."_

_I think I may have unintentionally channeled some Abby, though (sorry, Eric). _


	14. Chapter 14

_A big, fat chapter for you all._

* * *

"Any word from Callen?"

Sam glanced up sharply from the blurred words on his laptop screen.

"What?"

Nate tucked a manila folder under his arm as he leaned against one of the stone columns in the bullpen. He repeated his question patiently.

"Any word from Callen?"

Sam pressed his lips together and shook his head.

"None."

"You're worried."

It wasn't a question, but all the same, Sam's hackles rose defensively.

"_Course_ I'm worried," he snapped, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, "He's been gone for two weeks. I walk into my den one morning and he's just gone. For _two weeks_. No calls. No texts. Nothing."

Nate knew how close the two partners were. He also knew that successful partnerships in this line of work required far more than superficial respect and "teamwork." No, with the odds forever stacked against undercover operatives, partnerships would crumble without the all-important cornerstone that was friendship. Friendship—and an undying trust. In all his many years' worth of experience as an operational psychologist for NCIS, Nate had never seen any partnership that ran deeper than Sam's bond with Callen. The only one that had even come close had been Kensi's partnership with Sullivan all those years ago. That was one that still ran deep.

Sam and Callen were two halves of a whole, each perfectly functional on his own, but together, they were truly a force to be reckoned with. They'd grown in that knowledge, come to depend on each other. And now that half of that brilliance was missing, the other left behind was lost, drifting without his own wayward anchor.

With all this in mind, Nate chose his next words carefully.

"Callen's been through a lot in the past few months, Sam. You know he has a tendency to… go off on his own when he needs to think things over."

Sam snorted.

"You mean 'go off the reservation.'"

Nate smiled lopsidedly.

"At least it's without the tomahawks this time."

Sam shook his head.

"G doesn't need anyone on his tail to get into a whole lot of trouble."

Nate chuckled wryly, "I might have to agree with you on that point."

Sam smiled faintly before sobering and looking Nate in the eye.

"He hasn't contacted you?"

Nate shook his head, half-joking as he said, "I'd be more worried if he had."

"Yeah," Sam sighed, huffing out a breath.

Nate felt a sharp pang at Sam's tacit confirmation of his partner's lack of trust in him, but he set his own issues aside and focused on his job. His friends.

Shifting against the column, he said, "Callen will be fine. He just needs some time."

"_I just need some time, Sam_."

Sam blinked away the lingering ghosts and offered Nate a grim smile.

"I just wish he'd hurry it up or at least let me know he isn't bleeding out in an alley somewhere."

Nate clearly heard the guilt in the big man's voice.

"He'll come back when he's ready," he murmured softly.

What else could he say?

* * *

Sam's phone rang, and he answered it on instinct, hitting the button on his Bluetooth.

"Hanna," he said, wincing at the crackle of static that burst into his ear.

"Hey," a familiar voice panted on the other end of the line," You miss me?"

Sam almost crashed the Challenger into the center divider.

"_G_!?" he shouted, "Where the _hell_ have—"

"—Look," his partner cut him off, and Sam, with no little alarm, realized he was gasping for air, "I'd love to catch up and stuff, but—" Callen sucked in a breath that sent such a rush of static that Sam knew he _had_ to be using a crappy burner, "—I think I might need a ride."

Sam careened across the 405, shooting for the nearest exit.

"Where are you?" he demanded, the Challenger rumbling around him.

"Uh…" there was a clatter, and a silence that had Sam ready to explode before Callen wheezed out cross-streets that made Sam's blood run cold, "Ocean Front and Rose."

"What happened?" Sam snapped, whizzing through an intersection, horns blaring on all sides around him.

Callen didn't answer immediately, and Sam could only listen to the ragged sound of his partner's breathing grating in his ear.

"G!" he shouted, "If you don't say something in the next five seconds, I'm calling an ambulance!"

"You don't have to," his partner replied breathlessly, "I already have."

Sam swore, desperation creeping into his voice, "Stay on the line, G. I'm ten minutes out."

"I'm fine, Sam," Callen wheezed, "The ambulance isn't for me."

Sam groaned, foot never leaving the gas.

"What the _hell_ is going on, G?"

"Uh…" Sam was struck by the strain he heard in his partner's voice, "Couple of the locals were getting a little too friendly with one of the buskers on the boardwalk."

"So you stepped in."

"Yeah."

"Do I _need_ to remind you that you've been out of the hospital for less than a month?"

"No."

The lack of smart-ass-ing put Sam on guard again.

"You have something you need to tell me?" he demanded.

"What?" Callen replied quickly, "No. Why would I?"

"I'm not gonna have to haul your half-conscious ass to the hospital again, am I?"

"I'm _fine_, Sam."

"You know what Hetty said about ER visits."

"Sam, I'm _fine_," Callen repeated, "just a little… winded."

Sam gritted his teeth, images of his partner lying bleeding out on the pavement flashing through his mind.

"Just stay put," he commanded, "I'm almost there."

"There's no rush," Callen said faintly, "Take your time."

Sam pulled up to the curb and threw the car into park, tearing the keys out of the ignition. He could make out the flashing lights of some cruisers and ambulances straight ahead, an awful sense of déjà vu settling around him.

From the clear skies to the rubbernecking crowd, it all was too similar.

"G?" he said into his phone, "I'm here, Where are you?"

No reply came, and he took his phone away from his ear and realized the call had been disconnected. Sam grabbed the nearest uniformed officer, flashing his badge.

"Special Agent Sam Hanna," he said tersely, "I'm looking for my partner. Skinny guy. About five ten. He's the one that called it in."

The cop jerked his head over his shoulder at the ambulance, saying, "They're taking a look at him now."

Sam brushed past the officer, striding to the open rear doors of the ambulance to find his partner sitting on the stretcher looking thoroughly put out.

"How is he?" he asked the EMT taping a bandage across a gash on Callen's brow.

"A few bumps and bruises," the EMT replied, "Nothing too serious."

"See?" Callen said, glaring pointedly at his partner, "I'm fine. Florence Nightingale here's just a little overeager with the needles."

The EMT rolled her eyes and smacked Callen in the arm, muttering, "You passed out. In the middle of the street. Forgive me for doing my job."

Sam blinked, eyes darting from the paramedic to his partner and back again. Callen studiously avoided eye contact.

"You really sure he's good to go?" Sam asked pointedly, "Seems like he hit his head pretty hard."

"He's got a mild concussion and some bruised ribs that he should probably get checked out, but knowing him, he'll probably pull a Peter Pan out the back of the ambulance before we get to the hospital."

Sam sighed.

"I'll keep an eye on him," he said, nodding his thanks as the paramedic stripped off her gloves and started cleaning up the unused medical supplies, "Thanks for taking a look at him."

"You got it," the EMT said as she pushed the gurney back into the ambulance, smiling at Callen and calling back over her shoulder, "Take care of yourself, Secret Agent Man."

Sam pressed his lips together to keep from snorting out loud.

"You know," he said, once she was out of earshot, "She's not a cop, so…"

"Not interested," Callen said quickly, blowing out a breath and immediately regretting it when his ribs protested.

Sam cast him a sidelong look.

"So, you gonna tell me what that was all about?"

Callen turned away, walking towards the intersection.

"It's a long story."

"Hold up," Sam demanded, placing his hand on Callen's chest, "You disappear for two weeks—no note, no message, no nothing except for forty dollars on my bathroom counter, then you call me up sounding like you're about to pass out—which, apparently, you _did_—asking for a ride because you got beat up in a fight. So I come speeding all the way out here, breaking every traffic law known to man, by the way, only to find you making friends with some hot paramedic, and all I get is 'It's a long story'?"

Callen hesitated, squinting into the late-afternoon sun.

"She's an old contact," he said quietly, "She helped me out way back when I was with the DEA. She contacted me a few weeks ago and said her sister'd seen the shooting while she was busking that afternoon and thought I might like to ask her some questions," Callen glanced briefly at Sam before looking away again, "Turns out her sister's been in some serious trouble with a local gang over talking to some cops about what happened," he shrugged, "It was a coincidence, really, that I was here when they made the hit."

Sam crossed his arms.

"So you've been working a lead," he said flatly.

"I was repaying a debt."

"No, you weren't. You went off looking for answers on your own. Again. You didn't think that maybe I'd be worried about you going lone wolf less than three months after you got shot? We're _partners_, G. We stick together."

Callen looked away, face set.

"Look," Sam continued, hands spread, "I get that this is personal, but I want to find who did this just as much as you do. You gotta let me in, G."

He stood there in front of his partner, hands open, begging Callen not to shut him out again.

"I've got an apartment now," Callen said abruptly, turning away and resuming his march to the intersection.

"_What_?"

"Oh, don't be surprised, Sam, I've stayed in apartments before. They're not houses."

"Come back here. We are _not_ finished," Sam sputtered, hurrying after his partner.

"We were having a moment, Sam," Callen sighed, jogging across the street, "I don't _do_ moments."

"I was just asking you—nicely—not to go all _Three Days of the Condor_ on me again. How is that a moment?"

"I can tell that Hetty's really rubbing off on you."

"Quit avoiding the question."

"What question?"

Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation, slamming the driver's side door as he sat down.

"Sometimes, I'd like to shoot you myself," he growled, glaring at Callen, who was grinning in the passenger seat, "What the hell are you doing sitting in my car?"

"You're giving me a ride."

"Like hell I am. Get out. I'm pissed at you, man."

Callen's grin widened.

"No, you're not. This is called reaction formation—it's a defense mechanism. You're actually really glad to see—"

"—Just shut up, G. Shut up before I do something we'll both regret."

Sam gripped the steering wheel. Hard.

After a lengthy pause, Callen spoke up again, "You know that driving a car usually involves actually starting the engine, right?"

"What makes you think I'm gonna give you a ride, G? Name one reason."

Callen cocked his head, eyes twinkling.

"Well, you practically broke the land speed record to get here, and you haven't thrown me out the door just yet, so I'm guessing that yes, you will give me a ride," he broke eye contact and leaned against the window, adding quietly, "Plus, we're partners."

Sam stared at Callen, who'd closed his eyes against the cool window glass. He swallowed, realizing that in his most vulnerable moment, Callen had called _him_. Callen had trusted that he would come. And he had.

Sam turned the keys in the ignition, and the Challenger rumbled to life.

"That," he said, "was a moment."

In the seat beside him, Callen's lips twitched faintly in the ghost of a smile.

* * *

_Thanks for hanging around with this story. _

_A few logistical things: I've purposely kept all these chapters pre-series in the general timeline of the show (with the exception of chapters one and seven, which take place during and right after "Identity," respectively) in order to keep things simple. With that in mind, I've also written a few unpublished chapters that take place during seasons one and two. For a while, I was thinking about splitting this story into two "books," but it's beginning to look more and more like that's not going to be happening because, well, studying for a degree does actually take quite a bit of time and effort._

_Basically, what I'm asking you readers is: Do you want me to put up these post-"Identity" chapters now as one large, uncoordinated jumble at the end of this story, or do you want to wait for me to actually finish these chapters and figure out where I'm going with them (which might never even happen)?_

_Thanks again, and please leave your response in the reviews!_


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